


now the dark rain looks like dark rain

by seventhstar



Series: a covenant with a bright blazing star [13]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Katsuki Yuuri, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Regency, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Omega Victor Nikiforov, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 09:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14808303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: A fresh set of clothes and a damp cloth over his face gives him the appearance of a Viscount at home on his estate, but Yuuri still cannot look his reflection in the eyes. He feels as if his skin is painted on; though he is awake and the dream is only a dream, the image remains behind his eyelids.[part of an ongoing series of fics, telling the story of poor and scandalous trademan's son viktor nikiforov's marriage of convenience to the reclusive lord katsuki]





	now the dark rain looks like dark rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yuena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuena/gifts).



> CONTENT WARNING: This fic is in large part about Yuuri and VIktor's grief over the loss of their parents, in particular their mothers.

One night Yuuri has the nightmare again.

First he is back at home after the funeral again, the house draped in black crepe, looking for his parents. He searches every room, every corner, every nook and cranny, of a house that is dusty with neglect. Then he finds himself in the hall outside the master suite. The door is closed; a black wreath has been hung on it.

He doesn’t want to go inside. But he must; against his will, he turns the knob, pushes forward the door, enters the sickroom that has become a morgue.

His parents are lying in bed together, cold and still the way they were never were in life, and  Yuuri’s imagination conjures up every morbid detail he was spared seeing in reality. Every part of him recoils, but still Yuuri goes to the bedside—extends one shaking hand to touch their white flesh—

—wakes, gasping, in a cold sweat.

“Yuuri?”

For one horrifying moment, Yuuri thinks that Viktor, too, is a corpse, come to call him to account for his sins. Then his mind reasserts himself, and he sees Viktor bent over him, face taut with concern.

“Viktor.”

“A nightmare?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Viktor touches his cheek, briefly, before settling back beneath the counterpane. Yuuri waits until he is still before slipping out of bed as silently as possible. Makkachin, curled with Vicchan on a rug before the hearth, lifts her head to woof softly at him as he passes. He kneels to scratch her head before going into the dressing room.

A fresh set of clothes and a damp cloth over his face gives him the appearance of a Viscount at home on his estate, but Yuuri still cannot look his reflection in the eyes. He feels as if his skin is painted on; though he is awake and the dream is only a dream, the image remains behind his eyelids.

He knots his cravat crookedly. The walls of the dressing are oppressive. Yuuri hid in one of the trunks here once, during a game with his father; when Toshiya found him, he’d rewarded Yuuri with a riding lesson. Now this is just a room full of clothes Yuuri does not wear and ghosts he cannot escape.

Yuuri doesn't trust himself to ride in this state. He goes for a walk instead. He wanders the familiar grounds of the estate, reliving childhood memories as the faint pink tinge to the dawn sky turns orange and then blue. He walks until his stomach grumbles. Would his parents approve, he wonders. Of Viktor, he thinks, they would, if they could know him.

(A part of Yuuri knows his parents would accept anyone Yuuri...cared for.)

Would they like the way he ran the estate? Agree with his investments? Urge him to wear colors?

He sighs as he lets himself back into the house, past Betsy dusting in the hallway using the spell network. He can smell fresh bread and coffee; at least there is breakfast.

Viktor is already there. He is wearing the same shirt still. Yuuri is going to say something about it to him today, he’s decided. He has formulated a theory: Viktor thinks this shirt conceals the weight he has lost. After all, Viktor always looks uncomfortable when Dr. Lee measures the width of his arms and chest (with the help of Betsy, Yuuri has noted with some relief.) Perhaps he feels diminished and thinks the tattered clothing will draw attention away from what he sees as other discrepancies.

 _Should I flatter him?_ Yuuri thinks. T _ell him how fine he looks? Will he think I mean something by it? I do mean something by it. But not that!_

“Yuuri, you ought to eat properly,” Viktor says. Yuuri realizes that while he has been woolgathering, his plate has been filled. He tucks in, even as he glances at Viktor’s single piece of toast and three quarter full cup of tea.

“Viktor, what do you like to eat?”

“Hmm?”

“Whatever it is, I will have it made.”

“Oh, I...what is your favorite thing to eat?”

“Katsudon.” Yuuri hurries to explain. “Breaded pork, and rice, and egg...well, it is a bit foreign.”

“That sounds delicious!”

“I’ll make it for you,” Yuuri says immediately.

“What, personally?”

Yuuri has never cooked anything in his life. Still, like a fool, he nods.

“I did not know you cooked,” Viktor says. He sounds delighted. “I cannot, you know. I never have.”

“Naturally.”

Desperate for an escape from conversation, Yuuri reaches for his coffee at the same time Viktor reaches for his tea; their elbows bump and the coffee cup upends all over Viktor. Hot coffee spills all down the front of Viktor’s white shirt; Yuuri yelps and rushes to pat at him with a napkin.

“Viktor—take that off, you’ll be burned—”

“It is not that hot.” Viktor pulls the wet fabric away from his skin. “Ugh, but my shirt. Will the stain come out?”

“Well,” Yuuri says reluctantly, “it will probably not. I’m sorry.”

“Damn.”

Viktor looks fearsome for a moment, and then the anger is smoothed away behind the polite expression he wears less and less of late. He starts to get up; Yuuri reaches to stop him, or accompany him, he is not sure which.

“Wait, let me—”

“Excuse me, I had better go and change.”

“Viktor, I’m sorry,” Yuuri says. “I know you liked this shirt for some reason.”

“For some reason?” Viktor asks.

“You have to admit that this shirt has seen better days.”

“Oh, so if things are old and worn out, and—and used, we should just discard them?”

“...yes?” Yuuri stares at him, baffled. He clearly remembers Viktor’s wardrobe prior to his illness, and it was as fine as Yuuri’s and more fashionable besides. “It is not as if it is the only shirt you own!”

Viktor wrenches the shirt off and throws it into Yuuri’s hands. It’s wet, and smells strongly of coffee. Bewildered, Yuuri can only stand there with his mouth open as Viktor—mercifully wearing a chemise under his shirt today that is also stained all down the front where the coffee has soaked through—strides out of the room.

It’s not until he hears Viktor’s footsteps on the stairs that it occurs to Yuuri that he ought to go after him.

Yuuri lays the shirt out on the table, heedless of the tablecloth, and pours water from the pitcher over it. Then, concentrating, he tries the stain-removing spell Phichit tried to teach him at university. He lifts the liquid away, carefully, trying to hold it in the air and to lift out the coffee with him. Halfway through, he realizes he has no idea what he ought to do with the coffee-tinged water, and hurries to snatch up an empty cup to collect it.

The end result is poor; the shirt is still irreparably brown. Sighing, Yuuri folds it and tucks it under his arm before following Viktor upstairs.

He assumes Viktor has gone into the bedroom, in search of a fresh shirt, but Viktor is not there. His trunk is open; Yuuri looks within for some sign that Viktor has been there. He has never looked through Viktor’s trunks before, as Viktor keeps them shut. In this one there is one night shirt, two handkerchiefs, a few letters, and a quantity of dark glass bottles that Yuuri recognizes as foci. Expensive foci, as well.

_Where is the rest of Viktor’s wardrobe?_

_Come to think of it,_ Yuuri wonders, _was the rest of Viktor’s luggage ever delivered?_ There is only a singular trunk here.

There is a knot in his stomach as he sets the ruined shirt in the hamper for cleaning and goes back down to the library to search Viktor out. Viktor is not there, nor is he in the kitchen, breakfast room, or any of the parlors. He is not out in the gardens. Yuuri swallows in fear as it occurs to him that Viktor could have wandered out onto the grounds again. The weather is fine today, but he could easily tire or get lost.

He hurries upstairs again. There are still the remaining bedrooms in the family wing and then the guest rooms to search before he tries outdoors. Surely after his illness, Viktor would have more sense. Surely.

There are six rooms in the family wing, as Yuuri recalls: the master bedchambers, rooms for his sister and Minako, Yuuri’s former chambers, and two chambers that are not in use currently. They would be reserved, Yuuri thinks, for future family members—Mari’s spouse, his children. By all right Yuuri ought to have given Viktor a room there at the beginning of their marriage, instead of one in the guest wing, but no matter.

Their chamber remains empty. Minako and Mari’s rooms are empty, too, not that Yuuri truly expects Viktor would venture into either of them. That leaves two remaining rooms.

“Two…?” Yuuri frowns as he counts the doors, turning slowly in the center of the hallway. “There should be three.” He counts again. The doors are spaced equally on either side of the hallway; yet at the end of the hall, there is a lefthand door and not a right

He runs his fingers along the wall. The wallpaper is continuous; even with his eyes closed, Yuuri cannot feel the wood of the door, or the knob, or any interruption in the smooth, old-fashioned paper. Yet the door should be there. Entire rooms do not just disappear.

_“You require proof? Go out into the hall and into the room at the end of the hall. The last door on the right.”_

Yuuri recalls Dr. Lee’s words. _Could it be…?_

“Impossible,” Yuuri mutters, but he remembers the matter of the lightning, and shivers. Magical illusions exist, of course, on the stage. But that is highly specialized magic, requiring the careful coordination of teams of mages. For Viktor to have crafted an illusion of this caliber, and then to have anchored it in place so that it lasted months after Viktor stopped being able to maintain it...that is exceptional. Yuuri has no notion of how it could be done.

However, if it is just an illusion, the door must still be there. Yuuri has no desire to try to dismantle the spell—even if he could it would be rude beyond measure to undo another mage’s hard work—but surely he should still be able to enter the chamber. Unless Viktor has locked it.

Sighing, he fumbles along the wall for where he estimates the knob out to be, and makes a turning motion with his hand. He tries this for several minutes without success; it has just occurred, belatedly, to Yuuri that he could knock when something gives under his hand and he stumbles through the wall and into the chamber.

“...hello,” he says stupidly.

Viktor, sitting on a stool by the empty hearth with the wrap Yuuri gifted him draped over his bare shoulders, stares at him.

“How did you—”

“There was supposed to be a door,” Yuuri says. “But there was not, so I...I pretended there was one and tried to open it.”

“Oh.”

“You must be cold.” There is some wood piled by the fireplace, at least. Yuuri adds a few logs and lights the fire with a gesture. Even in the spring, the shut up parts of the house are cool, and Viktor is shivering. Yuuri seats himself tentatively on a chair nearby.

He looks at Viktor—at his bare arms folded across his chest, at his stained chemise lying on the bed—and closes his eyes in sudden, violent realization.

“It _is_ the only shirt you own.”

Viktor nods.

“You ought to have told me—I would have—”

“You would have complained about having a very expensive husband foisted on you by my aunt.”

Yuuri’s cheeks burn. He cannot deny it.

“I apologize for my outburst,” Viktor says tonelessly. “Forgive me.”

“Of course, of course.”

Yuuei folds his hands in his lap, even as he glances at the fire and encourages it to burn higher. He can see the gooseflesh on Viktor’s forearm. Viktor looked cold before, sometimes, and now Yuuri knows that it is because he never had a coat or gloves to warm him. No wonder he was out in the woods at night doing magic in his worst clothes; it must have been too much to hold the illusion and the lightning, all at once.

The illusion. He finds himself peering at Viktor, looking for some point of difference between before and after his illness. The sheen on his hair has changed, perhaps; there are indentations under his eyes too dark to be fashionable. The proportions of his face—Yuuri has attributed the changes to his weight loss—are slightly different.

He does not realize he’s lifted his hand until Viktor flinches away from the brush of Yuuri’s fingertips across his face.

“Why do you pretend?”

“What?”

“You have so much,” Yuuri gestures vaguely, “talent, why do you use it to—” He motions at his face.

The hurt that crosses Viktor’s face is profound. But it is gone as soon as it comes, like an old letter unearthed and folded away for safekeeping. The expression that follows is calm, serene, false. Yuuri opens his mouth, closes it; he is not sure what to say.

“It would be warmer in our chamber,” he says, finally. “Betsy might have salvaged your shirt. I am afraid my attempt was very poor, I...but we can take it to the village tailor.”

“Perhaps that would be best if we are to have visitors.”

“Yes. I—I will attend to it at once.”

He stands up. Viktor remains where he is seated. Yuuri wishes that he could compel Viktor to come with him, to warm himself at their fire, but he has not that power. Instead he bows, hurriedly, and goes; if he can catch Betsy now, there might yet be a shirt for Viktor in time for dinner.

 

* * *

 

Cooking is superbly difficult.

Yuuri has never thought it to be easy, but he had not expected this level of difficulty. His mother’s recipe is arcane, without any measurements and with only vague instructions. At least one ingredient is simply missing from the house.

He begins with the pork, which looks disgusting raw and which is only vaguely improved by the addition of breading and sauce, though pounding the meat is cathartic enough. Then he tosses the remaining ingredients—broth, vegetables chopped poorly—in with the pork in a pan. His anxiety is such that he loses control of the fire in the stove and nearly sets both the meal and himself aflame.

His rice, at least, is correct. Or it looks correct. One bite tells him the taste is otherwise.

The cook watches him warily, but knows better than to offer help, though he can hear her grumbling that she is the one hired to cook and if her services are not up to snuff his lordship ought to say so. He just shakes his head. He said he would do it himself; if nothing else he owes it to Viktor to be consistent.

The meal is near done when there is a knock at the kitchen door. It opens to reveal Viktor, who is, to Yuuri’s eternal relief, fully dressed. (A part of Yuuri is disappointed. Only a small portion. Why should Yuuri care if fully dressed means that he can no longer enjoy the slice of bare skin exposed by Viktor’s open shirts?)

“Yuuri?”

“Yes?”

“Are you cooking?”

“...yes?”

“How delightful,” Viktor says.

“I shall dress in a moment,” Yuuri says; he is suddenly aware of the fact that he is wearing an apron and that there is flour on his spectacles. He takes it off and succeeds in smearing he flour in the process. “Excuse me.”

It takes only a few minutes for Yuuri to change—someone, bless them, has laid out dinner dress for him on the bed—and he is pleased to see a stack of serviceable clothing in Viktor’s size on the lid of Viktor’s trunk. It is plain and not as fine as it ought to be, but Yuuri can write to town for more elaborate clothing once he and Viktor have discussed what colors and styles he favors.

He cleans his glasses on a handkerchief before going back downstairs.

It is clear, in the bright light of the dining room where lightning lamps are now installed, that Viktor has taken great pains with his appearance tonight. His hair has been curled, and his cheeks are pink. Yuuri smiles at him, unsure of what his expression is like, but it must please, for Viktor smiles at him in return.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening.” Yuuri takes the seat across from Viktor.

The footman serves the meal once the wine has been poured; as the bowls of katsudon are set before them, Yuuri drinks some wine to calm his nerves. ‘Some’ becomes the entire glass. Viktor, sipping daintily at his own, raises an eyebrow.

“I hope you like it,” Yuuri mutters. “It is a family specialty.”

“It looks delicious!”

It does. Cook must have tried to save it while Yuuri was dressing. Bless her. Yuuri picks up his chopsticks and prods at his pork cutlet. Viktor has been provided a fork and a knife.

“What are those?”

“Oh, this is how we eat in Japan.”

“Can you teach me?”

“Yes, you just—you hold one like a pen, and the other,” Yuuri holds up his chopsticks and clicks them together to demonstrate. “Like so.”

Viktor nods and picks up the set of chopsticks laid his his plate. He is clumsy, but he manages after two attempts to seize a morsel of rice. Yuuri watches it approach Viktor’s lips with dread. What a shame, he thinks, watching Viktor’s pink mouth open, to ruin something so beautiful with something so awful.

He forces himself to eat a bite while Viktor chews.

It is not just awful; it is indescribably terrible. His mother would be horrified to see it served at her table. Yuuri is perversely relieved, for a moment, that she is not there to eat it.

“Well,” Viktor says. “This is...unusual.”

“It’s awful.”

“Yes.”

Yuuri hangs his head in shame. He can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. _Yes,_ he thinks, _that is what I need, to cry in front of Viktor at dinner._

“It’s my mother’s recipe,” he says. His voice cracks. “She taught my sister. I was going to learn from her—” He swallows. “I meant to learn from her someday. I’ve never cooked anything in my life. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

They sit there in silence. Yuuri bites his lip; he wants not to cry, but the tears are dripping down his face against his will. He suppresses a sob.

“Let’s go outside,” Viktor says.

His chair scrapes against the carpet, and then there is a hand under Yuuri’s arm, tugging him upright. He allows Viktor to drag him from the dining room and out of the house. The cool evening air smells of flowers; the chirping of insects is grating. Viktor pushes him down onto a bench.

Yuuri cries into his hands for a long time, long enough that his eyes burn and breathing is difficult. Viktor is sitting beside him; Yuuri can feel the warmth of his body against his arm.

“My mother used to boast about how beautiful I was.” Apropos of nothing, Viktor speaks.

“She...she did?”

“Oh, yes. Her friends might be richer, and better bred, and more connected, but she used to say that her son was prettier than all of their omega children combined.” Viktor laughs. “She would be furious, to see me now. She would scold me terribly for letting myself go.” He leans into Yuuri conspiratorially. “She used to tell me I was lucky to have my looks, since my father couldn’t afford to dower me.”

Viktor delivers this line with a practiced air of nonchalance, but his smile does not quite reach his eyes.

“She said she would come to my wedding in her worst dress. This,” Viktor touches his cheek, “is the only spell she taught me.” He nudges Yuuri with his elbow lightly. “You see? One can be exactly what their parents wish, and still be completely disappointing.”

Yuuri stares at Viktor’s profile; he has turned his face away again, a habit Yuuri has only now realized is because Viktor cannot use his magic to conceal his expressions. He does not know how to fathom Viktor’s confession, whether he is fond of his mother or resentful; is this Viktor’s idea of comfort? Has Viktor ever been called on to comfort anyone?

“My mother was…” Yuuri trails off. “I look like her.”

Hiroko Katsuki had looked entirely ordinary. She had never been a great beauty; she had never been called an incomparable or had any duels fought for her hand. She had been unfashionable, but not in the calculated way that some omegas were to cultivate a sort of notoriety. She had done her own cooking, and her own mending, and only ever worn three colors because those were the ones she liked.

The evening silence is endless. The stars overhead seem almost oppressive.

He hears a rustle, and the creak of a bent bough, and then the scent of blackthorn. There’s the softest whisper of wind across Yuuri’s wet cheeks, and when he looks up—

—it’s his mother.

Or a portrait of her, at least, made of blackthorn petals and empty air. It lingers before him, smiling at him; it looks too like her. There is the curve of her cheeks as she smiles, the lines in her face from laughing at her husband after one too many drinks, the creases in her clothing. Yuuri remembers with sudden violence his mother coming into the front hall after Mari brought him home after his first year at school. He remembers her rushing back out as soon as she saw him— _the katsudon isn’t ready! Kaa-san, please, I’m not hungry! You’ve gotten thin again, I’ll make two bowls!_ —remembers she always treated him as if he were a success.

The wind disperses the petals in an instant. Only their scent remains.

“Thank you.”

Viktor’s arm slips lightly over his shoulders. “You are welcome.”

“My mother would have made you eat, you know.”

“I eat.”

“Viktor, you never eat.”

“It’s indelicate,” Viktor says. “My mother never ate in front of anyone. She would take me into her dressing room after dinner and give me a sandwich.”

Yuuri leans, very gently, into Viktor’s touch. He smells, very faintly, of rosewater.

“We are married,” he says quietly. “You are part of my family now, and in this household, no one is allowed to leave the table until they are full.”

“...I have to finish the katsudon you made?”

“What? No. We can beg Cook for bread and cheese tonight.”

“Thank goodness.”

“Come,” Yuuri says. “You ought to rest, too, you are not supposed to do magic. I will have to pay Dr. Lee more to remain if you disobey him.”

“Perish the thought,” Viktor says, but he lets Yuuri take his hand, and lead him into the house.

 

* * *

 

The ruined shirt has been restored to pristine whiteness by Betsy’s clever hands; it sits folded atop Viktor’s new wardrobe when they finally come up to bed. Yuuri has eyes heavy with sleep and a belly full of crusty bread and cold meat and cheese, and the taste of wine is still in his mouth. He watches, even so, as Viktor, half-undressed, stops to hold the shirt up to the light.

“As good as new,” he says. “Though it still smells like coffee.”

“I like coffee,” Yuuri says, with a tongue made stupid by tiredness.

He watches Viktor remove the layers of his clothings, his curled hair hanging in masses as the pins lie discarded on the dresser. There is a fine layer of stubble on Viktor’s jaw. _I would like to unfold you,_ Yuuri thinks, _like a paper crane; I would like to discover the secrets hidden in your every crease and line._

He falls asleep watching Viktor breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a depressing installment, I know, but things will pick up in the next few!


End file.
